I loved being a college student. Well, I loved being in college. The student part, not so much. If only I had paid more attention, maybe I would have been better prepared for motherhood. And I don’t mean Intro to Psychology. But on the other hand, if I close my left eye, stand on one foot and spin around a couple of times, I might be able to see motherhood as the perpetual college student experience. Minus the trashcan punch.

Surprisingly there are as many similarities as there are differences.

Socializing 101 was kind of my thing, which inevitably revolved around parties and alcohol. I’m not sure what was worse – the hang over or the queasy realization of how much money I had just charged onto my credit card. When you can equate a bar tab to a car payment, it’s bad. As a mom, I’d like to say I’m sooo over that whole “Gawd, can you believe how much we drank last night” thing. Only now it’s mostly a party of one and a bottle of wine. On occasion I serve enough spaghetti dinners to have money for a sitter, comb dried food out of my hair and find matching clean clothes (that don’t require tennis shoes). The only hangover I have the next morning now is from overindulgence, and maybe a dim memory of a mildly recognized rendition of Patsy Cline’s Walking After Midnight at the bowling alley karaoke bar. I do at least wake up with the satisfaction that at this point in my life I can embarrass myself without paying interest.

However, I am seriously disappointed to find out that there was an expiration date on pony-tails. That no-make-up, hair knotted on top of your head, jeans, t-shirt and flip-flops uniform used to be considered the “sexy, just rolled-out-of-bed” look but apparently at 37 it is just called the “lazy, stay-at-home-mom” look.

But if you had to judge me by my car, I think it would be a tie. College student vs. Mom? It isn’t uncommon to find fast food wrappers, empty cups, books, changes of clothes or the smell of french- fries lingering in the back seat. Housing hasn’t changed much either. I still have to deal with messy roommates, keeping odd hours, a lack of food in the fridge and a kitchen sink full of dishes. I also still call my mom because I’m homesick, need to talk about boys or am drowning in girl drama.

In college I took whatever jobs worked around my class schedule. Now I take whatever jobs work around their kids’ schedule. Instead of shuffling money around to pay for parties, hair and clothes (in college I’d go without food to look good), I shuffle around money to pay for birthday parties, back to school supplies and sports (I go without looking good to buy food.)

In college I’d spend hours primping to feel sexier before a date. It seemed like a waste of time to shave for a cheap date. Those self-proclaimed forward thinkers, when in all actuality were just too cheap to treat. They always wanted to go Dutch to dinner and a movie. (To add insult to injury, it was usually the dollar theater too.) I tried to save leg shaving for the optimistically great dates. The ones that showed promise. They consisted of a restaurant fancy enough to wear heels, followed up by drinks, dancing, and live music with friends. The most amazing dates wouldn’t end until the sun came up.

Now I spend hours cleaning my house so I’m not distracted during sex by piles of unfolded laundry or roaming dust bunnies. Quickies used to be like an appetizer before the main course. Now a quickie fits into the time of a commercial break so we don’t miss our favorite show. I’m ecstatic to see any movie that is rated higher than PG. And a cheap date is one where we don’t have to pay a sitter. I’ll gladly shave my legs to pay a sitter if it means we get to eat at a restaurant that doesn’t serve their food wrapped in paper or offer toys with every kids’ meal. The most amazing date gets me home in time to snuggle in bed to watch a favorite 10′oclock show.

Babysitting was a great gig as a college student. Stupidly I’d say things like, “Oh I love your kids so much I think I’d even babysit for free if you asked me to.” Fool. Little did I understand that being a mom meant babysitting the same kids without pay for the rest of my life.

So the next time I get that little pang of jealousy watching a group of giggling, gossiping college girls with their tight butts and perky boobs, I will try and remind myself that we aren’t that much different.

Not that much.